The Great Fluffpocalypse

It was grooming day here at the farm—also known as “The Great Fluffpocalypse.”

Dora, a Cockapoo, is our needy child. She has that wonderful, non-shedding poodle coat and had just gone to the groomer last week for her usual shampoo, haircut, and diva treatment, so she was in zero need of a brush. But don’t tell her that. The second she saw the grooming tote, she assumed the position like a diva about to take center stage. Stump of a tail wagging, butt wiggling, eyes sparkling, vibrating with the chaotic energy of a toddler who just ate three chocolate bars—she needed this. I gave her three pity brushes, praised her like she’d won Best in Show, and sent her back inside. She strutted off like a celebrity leaving a red carpet event and resumed her nap on the couch with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re fabulous.

Next up: Shaymus. Terrier mix of mysterious origin. Part dog, part tumbleweed with legs. When we adopted him, he didn’t shed. At all. We thought, “Wow! How lucky to find another non-shedding pooch!” Turns out, he just didn’t have an undercoat because of the poor nutrition common to stray street dogs. Fast forward to now—he’s healthy, thriving, and shedding like he’s in a competition to clone himself. I brushed him for 15 minutes and produced enough hair to stuff a futon. My porch looked like a dog exploded in slow motion. There was fur in my hair, on my teeth, inside my eyeballs, in my soul. Shaymus just sat there with the smug grin of a dog who knows he’s both the problem and the prize.

And then came Gus. Gus is our livestock guardian dog: massive, goofy, and under the impression that grooming is just an extreme sport version of cuddling. The moment he saw the brush, he belly-flopped like a sack of flour with fur and rolled over dramatically, ready for what he assumed was a 90-minute belly rub. Trying to brush Gus is like grooming a beached manatee that won’t stop wiggling. Every time I made a little progress, he rolled over like a furry rotisserie chicken and smiled like, “Was this the experience you were hoping for?” I had to use one hand to brush and the other to shield my face from joyful, slobbery kisses. By the end, I smelled like dog, mud, and despair.

We finished with a mountain of hair large enough to qualify for its own zip code. Dora was still napping like royalty. Shaymus was actively shedding in the breeze. And Gus was trotting toward the newly mowed pasture to roll and color himself green.

So yes, it was grooming day. I’m wearing enough fur to be mistaken for a border collie and my dignity is somewhere under the pile of fluff on the porch. But hey—it’s all in a day’s work on the farm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got fur in my mouth, slobber on my shirt, and a giant green dog to tackle before he gets captured by a leprechaun. Let’s roll.

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Charlie"s Journal - Day 14 - Freedom Tastes Like Goats and Revenge

Dear Journal,

Today… it happened. The cone is gone.

THE. CONE. IS. GONE.

For two weeks I have lived in plastic purgatory, burdened by neck floaties and the weight of betrayal. I have suffered the indignities of gorilla tape repairs, sympathetic head pats, and more than one very public bathroom break involving a cone full of leaves. I have knocked over chairs, bruised shins, and been mistaken for a satellite dish at least twice.

But this morning… the humans said the magic words.

“Charlie, let’s take that cone off.”

At first, I didn’t believe them. I stood there, frozen. I’ve been burned before. I remember that first day when they said I could go outside to pee, but meant on a leash? Yeah. I wasn’t falling for that again.

But then—they unbuckled it. They removed the neck donut and the cone. I shook. I spun. I zoomed.

And then I saw THEM. My goats. My herd. My purpose. My slightly confused woolly friends who have spent the last two weeks being guarded by… another dog. Honestly, Journal, I think one of them tried to unionize in my absence. After all, that other dog wasn't ME!

I ran to them, free at last, with the wind in my fur and the overwhelming need to sniff every single one of them just to make sure no one got funny ideas while I was away.

The humans clapped and called it “adorable.” I called it justice.

They think I’m healed. They think I’ve moved on. But deep down, I’ll never forget. I’ve been through a lot. I’ve been snipped, stitched, stapled, and shackled in shame plastic. I’ve known the pain of betrayal. I’ve licked the edge of the cone and tasted despair.

But I survived. And now I am FREE.

If you need me, I’ll be out in the pasture—head held high, tail wagging strong, keeping my goats safe from every shadow, squirrel, and suspicious breeze.

And if anyone tries to come near me with a cone again? They’d better bring a LOT snacks.

Forever victorious,
Charlie, the Restored
Protector of Goats. Breaker of Collars. Survivor of The Snipening.

Editor’s Note:
“Charlie’s Journal” will return in the event of porcupine encounters, skunk diplomacy failures, mysterious barn snacks, or any future medical interventions requiring inflatable accessories. Stay tuned. It’s only a matter of time.

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Charlie's Journal - Inmate #728: Mugshots & Misery

Tricked, Snipped, and Framed

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Charlie's Journal - Day 7 of Cone Confinement

Dear Journal,

It has been one week since The Great Snipening.

They continue to insist this is “for my own good,” but I remain unconvinced. Nothing good has happened since. I’m still wearing the cone. Still wearing the neck pillow. Still being kept indoors like some kind of overgrown, emotionally fragile houseplant.

I used to have a job. A purpose. I used to bark at hawks. I used to chase shadows in the pasture and pretend they were threats. I had goats to guard. Now? My days consist of being told “No, don’t lick that” and knocking my cone into every wall, doorframe, and human shin in this house. I'm a once-fearless guardian now reduced to a hallway speed bump.

The humiliation is endless.

I tried to mount an escape attempt on Day 5. I pressed my cone against the door, pawed at the handle, and made my saddest howl. They thought it was “adorable” and filmed it for Instagram. Instagram, Journal. I was betrayed twice in one week.

I have not pooped in peace since this thing was attached to my head. I have lost peripheral vision. I have learned what a “baby wipe” is. No dog should know these things.

My humans have taken to calling me “Donut Dog.” Sometimes “Sir Licks-A-Lot” when they catch me trying to sneak around the cone. The shame is unbearable. I was once a noble guardian. Now I’m a cautionary tale for puppies.

The goats have probably forgotten me. Maybe they’ve hired a goose in my place. Or worse—a mini donkey. I shudder to think of it.

I shall continue my silent protest by dramatically sighing and flopping to the ground every time someone walks by. And if I get one more “boop” on the nose while I’m trying to sleep? I will file a formal complaint.

Please send snacks. And maybe bolt cutters.

Desperately yours,
Charlie, The Conehead Avenger
(formerly of the pasture, now of the couch)

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Charlie's Journal - Day 3 of Captivity

Dear Journal,

I write to you from the confines of this…prison. Once, I was a proud and noble livestock guardian, patrolling the fields, barking at rogue butterflies, and valiantly protecting my  from imaginary threats. But that life—that freedom—is gone now.

It all began last week on a sunny Tuesday. I was so excited. They said, “Wanna go for a ride?” and I said, “HECK YES I DO.” I jumped into the truck like the good boy I am. Oh, the wind in my ears! The smells! Adventure was calling.

Little did I know… I was being betrayed.

We arrived at the vet’s. A place I had once loved. Treats! Pets! Weird little dogs in sweaters I could sniff! But this time was different. They left me there.

They. Left. Me.

When I awoke, something was… missing. I won’t go into detail, Journal, but let’s just say the family jewels had been repossessed.

I returned home wearing what they call a “cone.” I call it a “satellite of doom.” I can’t lick anything, I can’t go anywhere without knocking over furniture, and I have not successfully navigated a doorway since. It’s like trying to live with a lampshade strapped to your soul.

I did manage to remove my stitches, which felt like a win at the time. But then came the vet trip at night. The emergency place. They stapled me shut like a used Amazon box and gave me an even bigger cone. I removed those too. (I refuse to be held together by your human office supplies.)

Now I wear a ridiculous inflatable neck donut. I look like I’m about to board a red-eye to Florida. And I still have the cone as well. It’s like they’re stacking shame on top of shame.

They keep me indoors now. Indoors.
No goats. No mud. No air thick with the scent of chicken poop. Just... the couch.

My only solace is passive-aggressively sighing and flopping dramatically in the middle of the hallway, where they’ll trip over me and feel the full weight of my suffering.

I don’t know how much longer I can survive like this.
Send help. Or beef jerky. Or both.

Yours in suffering and inflatable accessories,
Charlie, the Formerly Intact

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Stitches? I Don't Need No Stinkin' Stitches!

Charlie went to the vet’s last Tuesday to be neutered. He’s a little over a year old now, which is the canine equivalent of being a rowdy teenager with a learner’s permit—old enough to get into trouble, and just young enough to think it’s a good idea.

He jumped into the truck like we were headed on the greatest adventure ever, tail wagging, tongue flapping, not a care in the world. He strutted into the vet’s office like he owned the place, sniffing every corner and introducing himself to everyone. “Hi, I’m Charlie. You smell like a snack. Wanna be friends?”

And then it hit him.

“Wait. You’re leaving me here?” he asked, ears back, eyes wide with betrayal.

“Yes,” I said, channeling my calmest mom voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up later.”

Well, the dog we got back that evening was not the same confident explorer who’d leapt into the truck that morning. This one looked like he’d sat on a wasp nest and was absolutely certain it was our fault.

Then came the infamous Cone of Shame.

Even with that, by Wednesday Charlie had pulled all his stitches out, broken the cone, and ripped it off his head like it was on fire and full of bees.

“Charlie, what did you DO?” I gasped.

He looked me dead in the eye. “Stitches? I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!” (Yes, that’s paraphrased from Blazing Saddles, but it was definitely the vibe.)

To top it off, his regular vet was on vacation. Of course he was. It’s a universal law: if something can go sideways, it will, and the vet will be sipping margaritas somewhere out of cell range. So off we went to the emergency clinic, where they gave him a bigger collar, a generous helping of staples, and a round of antibiotics. Surely that would do the trick. They also gave me a bill that could have bought a used car and a headache big enough to have its own zip code.

By Thursday, he’d broken the collar again and yanked out the staples for good measure. When I confronted him, he made it clear he had no intention of being held together with office supplies. This dog is part livestock guardian, part Houdini, and part chainsaw—and I’m single-handedly keeping Gorilla Tape in business just trying to keep the cone from total collapse.

I called his regular vet’s office again, and they gave me the ol’ shrug. Since he was clearly on a mission to remove anything foreign from his body—no matter how many times we reinstalled it—they said putting more staples in would be “pointless.” The wound would eventually granulate and heal on its own. (Granulate: fancy vet word for “It’ll scab up if he stops acting like a maniac.”)

Their one helpful tip? A blow-up pillow collar that looks like one of those neck pillows people wear in airports. It’s supposed to keep the cone from collapsing and maybe keep him from turning himself into a DIY project again.

So now poor Charlie is wearing a neck floatie and the Cone of Shame. We’re keeping him inside to avoid fly strike, and he's miserable. What should have been a few days of recovery before he was back out with his goats has turned into weeks of indoor incarceration, complete with wardrobe. He has lost not only his dignity, but also his masculinity and his freedom—all at the hands of the humans he once trusted.

He’s taken to sighing dramatically and lying by the door, like a disgraced action hero waiting for one last mission that will never come. Every exhale is heavy with betrayal, every glance at the doorknob a silent plea for freedom.

So here’s to Charlie—formerly intact, veteran of suffering, fashion icon of inflatable accessories, protector of goats, breaker of collars, and sole survivor of The Snipening. His resume grows by the day.

Please send Charlie your thoughts, prayers, and maybe a cone forged from steel-reinforced titanium with NASA-grade duct tape. He’s going to need it.

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Favorite places

There Are Places, and Then There Are PLACES!

Some places are just there, drifting by unnoticed, like the passing moments of a busy day. Others have a purpose—a supermarket for the week’s groceries, or a corner pizza joint that’s been around for decades. But then there are those rare places that hold something deeper, something timeless. Places that make you feel like you’ve stepped out of the world, even for just a moment, and into a space where your soul can breathe a little easier.

For Ollie, our English Shepherd, his favorite place is simple—a spot across my husband’s lap while he's reading in his chair. It’s the kind of comfort that only dogs understand, the pure joy of being close to someone you love, without a care in the world. It’s sweet, it’s uncomplicated, and it’s all he needs. And in his world, that’s just about perfect.

As for us humans? We’re a bit more complicated. We’re always chasing after something. But to find a moment of peace, a sliver of calm in the chaos of life, is precious. I found my spot many years ago, tucked under a tree in the backyard that feels like an old friend. It’s not just any tree, mind you—it’s the tree. The one that’s been there through every season, every change. Its branches stretch out like a protective arm, offering shade from the sun, a quiet sanctuary away from the bustle of everyday life.

Sitting there, beneath that tree, time seems to slow down. The world softens around me. I can breathe in the earthy scent of damp moss, the rich perfume of the ground after a rain. I hear the bullfrogs at the pond, their deep croaks echoing through the still air, like a song that's been sung for generations. The noise of the world slips away, leaving only the whisper of the wind through the leaves and the comfort of being right here, exactly where I belong.

In today’s world, where everything moves so fast, it’s easy to forget the importance of these quiet moments. But we all need a place to pause—a place to remember that some things don’t change. That tree has seen so many of my memories, from the simple joy of sitting in its shade to the weight of more difficult times when it felt like the world was too much. But no matter what, it’s always been there, patiently waiting, offering a little peace when I need it most.

So, find your spot, the one that feels like home, where you can step back from the rush and breathe in the world a little slower. The days may change, the years may pass, but those places, the ones that have been there all along, will always remind you where you come from and where your heart feels most at rest. Your soul will thank you.

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From Guard Dog to Couch Critic

Each spring, we give our Great Pyrenees a good shearing to help them stay cool through the warmer months. Usually, they grow back their luxurious, snow-proof coats by the time frost returns to the air. Remy, our white polar bear with a bark that could peel paint, has always followed the plan.

Until this year.

This year, Remy's undercoat came in... well, let’s just say “reluctantly.” As in, it RSVP’d "maybe" and then ghosted her entirely. What little fluff did return was patchy at best, leaving her with two large bald spots on either side and a smaller one right over her withers. The poor thing looked like she lost a bar fight with a weed whacker.

Naturally, this called for an urgent and very expensive vet visit. Skin tests, a full blood panel, and a thyroid test later, the diagnosis was in: Remy is in perfect health. Go figure. Just a little thin on hair and thick on drama. The vet recommended supplements to encourage coat growth, but in the meantime, there’s one glaring issue—she’s not exactly equipped for our North Country winters.

And that’s how Remy became... a house dog.

She’s not thrilled about missing the thrilling excitement of fence patrol, barking at wind-blown leaves and invisible woodland demons. But she’s made some interesting indoor discoveries that are starting to grow on her—unlike her coat.

The first and most important discovery? The couch. Oh yes. She claimed it like a Viking taking over a new land. As is typical of a Pyr, she doesn’t recognize the word “no” unless it’s followed by “you can have that roast chicken.” So now, the couch is hers. We’re allowed to sit there, but only if we ask nicely and bring snacks.

Next up: grooming. Being a house dog apparently comes with spa appointments. Baths, brushing, and the dreaded blow dryer—Remy tolerates it all with the resigned nobility of a queen forced to mingle with the peasants. But she’ll put up with anything if it includes a car ride, which she enjoys like she’s auditioning for The Fast and the Furriest.

And then there's the kitchen—a place of magic and mystery where smells live. She's taken on the self-appointed role of pre-rinse cycle for the dishwasher and considers it her patriotic duty to inspect every plate for trace crumbs. She's surprisingly thorough. Borderline obsessive.

All in all, while the house may be a bit less exciting than the open pasture, it has its perks. Remy’s adapting. She still sighs dramatically when she sees the other dogs outside, but let’s be honest—she's got heated floors and unlimited couch access.

The real issue is going to be when her coat does grow back and it’s time to send her back outside.

Although… I could’ve sworn I saw her the other day pawing through the grooming supplies. And was that… did she just give herself another bald spot?

Coincidence? I think not.

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Farm Shuffle

Sometimes it feels like life hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air. I try to write, to record it while it's still fresh in my memory. And sometimes I have to think back a ways to make sure nothing escapes my forgetful brain.

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in February, I had the second surgery on my right foot to fuse the big toe joint. Why? Because about four years ago a 4x8 sheet of 3/4” plywood decided to swan-dive off a stack from about three feet up—right onto my foot. Crunch. You never realize how important that joint is until it’s been flattened like a pancake by a sheet of flying plywood.

So there I was, couch-bound for a couple of weeks, foot elevated like royalty, binging British detective shows and pretending to enjoy it. Then it was three months in a walking boot, clomping around the farm like Frankenstein’s cousin.

Meanwhile. . . everything changed.

The three grandkids all moved out. Poof. Just like that. After months of teenage angst, midnight fridge raids, and the distinct sound of video games and drums bleeding through the walls at 2 a.m., the house is now eerily quiet—and a whole lot cleaner. (And no one’s asking me where the peanut butter went. Because now I know where it is. Right where I left it, wherever that might be.)

"Hey, what's going on in here?"

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, after almost a year on the market, was sold to a vacation farm in Pennsylvania. You know, the kind of place where folks from the city pay real money to muck stalls and milk goats because they think it’s quaint. (I’ll let you in on a secret: they haven’t done it in February. Or in mud season.)

They also bought the saddle I had custom-made for him—because obviously, you can't have a horse without the saddle. The round pen? Sold. The horse trailer? Gone last week. And a few weeks ago, someone showed up intending to buy just one goat. . . and somehow drove off with five goats and four pigs. I’m not entirely sure how that happened. It was like a barnyard clearance sale where the animals negotiated their own deals.

Let’s recap what left for greener pastures:

3 grandkids (formerly known as “The Bottomless Pits”)

1 horse and his custom saddle

5 goats

4 pigs

1 round pen

1 horse trailer

And, as of today, our van

At this rate, I feel like I should be stamping “SOLD” on everything that’s not nailed down and setting up a booth at the local flea market.

But don’t worry—it hasn’t been all subtraction around here.

We added a new member to the farm family: Libby, short for Liberty Bell. She’s a Colorado Mountain Dog—part Great Pyrenees, part Anatolian Shepherd, and 100% adorable. At eight weeks old, she’s about the cutest thing this side of a baby panda and about as coordinated. Right now, she’s in that bite-everything-that-moves stage, with a bonus side of random leaping.

She’s not quite ready to be in with the goats just yet. We’re waiting for her to grow out of the ankle-nipping ninja phase and grow into the goat-guarding phase. For now, she’s in her own little section where she can see the goats and they can see her, but no one can head-butt, nibble, or escape.

I feel like I’m supervising a preschool version of Survivor: Barnyard Edition—complete with alliances, betrayals, and someone always crying.

Gabriel, our older LGD, has been the first to accept her—he’s got that kind, fatherly soul that says “sure, kid, you can sleep here, just don’t snore.” He lets her curl up beside him and even shares meals without a grumble. It’s no small thing to be welcomed by the senior dog—LGD apprenticeships are notoriously strict.

Remi, on the other hand, thinks Libby is about as welcome as a giant, fuzzy gnat. Every time Libby bounces her way, Remi gives her that withering side-eye that says “child, no.” It’s going to take some time before Remi gives her stamp of approval—but my bet is that by the end of the month, they’ll be wrestling like sisters and stealing each other’s dinner.

So there you have it: We're lighter on livestock, heavier on puppy antics, and navigating life one unexpected plot twist at a time.

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Skunked... The Sequel

My Great Pyrenees are livestock guardians, which means a few things. First, they live full-time with the goats and chickens. Second, they have free run of the fenced pastures and woods where the goats graze. And third, they are never clean.

So when Remi got skunked last week, she did what any self-respecting working dog would do—rolled in the grass and dirt like her life depended on it, trying desperately to erase the stench. I followed up with a generous application of skunk deodorizer, which helped tone down the eau de roadkill. But her thick undercoat was still full of grime, leaves, twigs, and possibly a few forgotten snacks.

At that point, I did something I rarely do: I called in reinforcements. Namely, a professional groomer with better tools and more patience than me.

Sixty dollars later... and I swear, you need sunglasses to look at her. Remi positively gleams. You forget under all that muck and hard-working dog-ness there’s actually a stunning animal underneath. She looks like she was dry-cleaned by angels. A clean Great Pyrenees is something to behold—majestic, regal, and just waiting to ruin it.

Of course, she’s not happy about it. She smells like shampoo now. Artificial cleanliness is not the LGD way.

So I’m just waiting to see what she chooses to roll in next to restore her natural, earthy aroma. Fresh manure? Rotten log? Whatever it is, she’s probably eyeing it up right now with a plan. And it probably smells better than skunk. Then again, most anything smells better than skunk.

"Mom says I smell good but I've got to find a manure pile to roll in so I can get rid of the shampoo smell."

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Skunked

"I STINK!"

In the wee hours of this morning—because of course it’s never at a decent hour—I was jolted awake by the unmistakable scent of Pepe Le Pew wafting through the windows. Apparently, some striped opportunist decided our broiler chickens were worth braving two barking dogs and the wrath of a sleep-deprived farm lady.

The night’s tally: 2 dogs skunked (1 Great Pyrenees, 1 English Shepherd), 0 chickens harmed, and 1 entire yard now smelling like a biohazard zone

Judging by the odor level (somewhere between “burnt tires” and “toxic waste spill”), the standoff took place right outside my back door. Remi, the Pyr, got the worst of it—pretty sure she took a direct hit to the chest. The English Shepherd rolled in some of the aftermath like it was high-end cologne.

Naturally, I couldn’t find my giant bottle of Nature’s Miracle Skunk Deodorizer. You know, the one I’ve had for years just waiting for a moment like this. Gone. Vanished. Probably tossed during one of my “I should declutter” moods. Rookie mistake.

I had to wait for the feed store to open, and by then my morning clients had arrived. Nothing says “professional” like smelling faintly of skunk while trying to pretend everything is fine.

While I waited, I quarantined both dogs in a fenced area, hoping to contain the smell. “Hoping” being the operative word here. I managed to get the English Shepherd mostly de-skunked, though I still wouldn’t recommend cuddling him. But Remi? She may need an exorcism. I’m currently waiting for a call back from the dog groomer and praying she has a cancellation, a hazmat suit, and maybe a sense of humor.

Moral of the story? If you own livestock, always keep two things on hand: skunk shampoo and a sense of humor. And maybe a clothespin for your nose. Skunks are the only predator bold enough to pick a fight with a 100-lb livestock guardian and win by weaponized B.O.

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Gabe, The Mother Hen!

Gabriel—Gabe to his friends—is our 120-pound Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dog. He’s a big, lumbering, majestic puff of white fur who keeps predators at bay and patrols the property with stoic determination.

But somewhere along the way, Gabe missed the memo and decided he’d rather raise chickens Especially chicks. Gabe loves chicks.

We’ve found him curled up in the brooder area more times than I can count, flat on his side like a big, fluffy polar bear while tiny puffballs hop over him like he’s the world’s warmest jungle gym. If he thinks they’re cold, he’ll gently nose them under the heat lamp. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t fuss. He just supervises, babysits, and occasionally sighs like he’s disappointed no one brought him a juicy steak for his efforts.

Now, our other livestock guardian, Remi, is a little more. . . straightforward. When a chicken dies, we toss it to the dogs—circle of life and all that. Remi eats hers right away and gets on with her day.

Gabe? Not so much.

Gabe will carry his dearly departed chicken around like a fragile relic. He won’t eat it. He won’t bury it. He just walks the yard with it in his mouth, as if he’s trying to protect it from further harm—or maybe give it a proper send-off. We’ve never been entirely sure if he eventually eats it or just reluctantly sets it down when hunger finally reminds him he’s still a dog.

But what we found yesterday topped everything.

Gabe was lying in the corner of the barn and wouldn’t move. At all. Which isn’t exactly unusual—he’s not what you’d call a high-performance machine. He’s generally pretty laid-back, except when a predator shows up, then he's all business. After some persistent calling and bribery failed, Jim finally walked over and gave his giant, fuzzy backside a push.

And that’s when we saw it.

There, tucked underneath him like he was the proudest hen in the flock, was a nest.

A real nest. With real eggs. Several of them. Hidden behind the wheelbarrow by a few sneaky hens. Gabe, bless his fluffy heart, had taken it upon himself to sit on them—gently, like this was his job now. He had accepted the call to motherhood and wasn’t about to let those eggs go un-incubated on his watch.

While the other dogs are doing things like barking at raccoons or patrolling the fence line, Gabe has appointed himself surrogate hen.

I guess every farm needs a Mother Hen. But sometimes, they come with paws, patience, and very, very confused instincts. And in Gabe’s case, an alarming amount of confidence that he could explain all this to the chicks when they hatch.

Good grief, don't let him into the chicken coop. He could never fit into one of the nest boxes!!!!

Gabe: "Hey, they took away my eggs. I loved those eggs. Not fair!"

Remi: "Did someone say eggs? Eggs are yummy! Is it snack time?"

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It's Raining

It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”

And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.

This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask?

Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting marshmallows.

I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear, Your Majesty.”

Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly, totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of suggestion:

Go inside.

Seriously, girl. Go lay down wit

h the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.

But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.

You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.

So we’ll just let her be.

Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.

Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.

Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp sense of duty.

"Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet."

And where, you might ask, are the goats that this faithful dog is guarding? Hiding in the barn of course!

Might I make a suggestion to the dog? Perhaps it would be better to sleep in the barn with the goats where it's dry. Just sayin'.

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Skunked

In the grand scheme of things, the two things I'm thankful for this morning may seem trivial to the general populace. But you fellow homesteaders, as well as dog owners, will totally relate, I'm sure. 

The first thing I'm thankful for is dogs who convinced the skunk that was heading toward the meat chickens, to change direction. They further convinced the skunk that a late night chicken dinner wasn't in its best interest. This is not an open-all-night KFC drive-thru, or in this case, walk-thru. After all, that's why we have dogs - 2 Great Pyrenees livestock guardians, and 2 English Shepherds who provide backup as needed.

I can picture the whole episode - poor skunk is out for a late night stroll, meandering across the lower pasture, and smells chickens. Oh, yummy chickens. Live chickens. Juicy chickens. Young, tender, 4 week old chickens. And in it's vast experience it realizes that these chickens are concentrated in one area - a chicken pen! What luck. To have all those live, juicy, tender, young chickens in a cage, on the ground no less, just waiting for a beautiful skunk, such as itself, to pop open a corner of the chicken wire, slip inside, and have a captive audience so to speak. Then, out of nowhere these huge white beasts come crashing up to the fence, barking and snarling, bent on eating said skunk for their late night snack. And what's even worse, there are 2 rust colored beasts right behind them, obviously with the same vicious intentions. Now really, what's a poor defenseless skunk to do? These snarling, viscous beasts can, without a doubt, run faster than the skunk, are much larger, and definitely have bigger teeth. The poor skunk has no choice, turn and spray in the direction of the beasts. 

Which brings me to the second thing on my thankful list. A fence that kept the dogs away from the skunk while it was making that very wise decision to seek dinner elsewhere. The dogs obviously intercepted the skunk while it was still a suitable distance from the fence and weren't close enough to get sprayed. While my yard was very stinky for a while, it was definitely preferable to having to bathe 4 dogs in tomato juice. You might say that the skunk got skunked!

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Farewell, Old Friend

"Every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are." ~~Author Unknown~~

I've had a very busy life. Every since I was a pup I've had lots of work to do.

I've learned lots of lots of things to take care of my family.

There were children to keep warm.....

The whole yard to patrol.....

Friends to make......

Dinner to catch.....

Dinner to eat.....

Smiles to capture.....

Children to keep clean.

Under my watchful care children flourished, a family was kept safe, and a home was filled with my love.

Indy - (Gunmettle's Independence Day) 5/4/98-7/13/11.

You will be loved and remembered forever. Well done, faithful friend.

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The Visitor

This is Nicky. He's visiting for a few weeks while his family is on vacation. Nicky is actually a half-brother to my 2 English Shepherds, Roxie and Jack. After the initial introductions, which were less than favorable about a new dog being added to the group, Nicky has been trying to make friends. It hasn't been going well. At times it's downright ugly.

"Maybe the old guy, Indy, wants to play." "Sure kid, as soon as I finish my nap."

"Hey, Roxie, how about you? Want to play?" "Get lost, brat!"

"Hey, Jack, want to....." "Bug off, squirt!"

"I said NO!"

"What part of  'no' don't you understand. Now GET LOST!"

"He's still sleeping? Is he even alive? Well, at least he's not snarling at me."

"Somebody, please play with me!"

"Not fair. They finally aren't snarling and I'm hooked on a chain. C'mon, lemme go so I can pounce on 'em."

Folks are amazed that I currently have 4 dogs in the house. They ask me how I do that. Well, for starters, you have to like dogs, have a good sense of humor, especially when squabbles occur, and have a really, really good vacuum cleaner! At least I don't have 4 toddlers in the house. You can't put them in respective crates!

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